


Pinocchio

by chieftain



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: All the Bucky feels, Almost right after the movie, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, Past Brainwashing, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Build, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Villains who suck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3638610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chieftain/pseuds/chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Asset tries to be a real boy.</p><p>If only it were that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Asset is a weapon. Weapons-

Weapons do not feel pain. They do not fail missions, and they do not save men from drowning. They are mindless, obedient. They are not angry for they are emotionless.

And yet- What he feels cannot be called anything other than a mental agony, along with the constant throbbing of his vessel. He failed to prevent the destruction of the helicarriers and failed his command to eliminate one Steve Rogers, the same man he dove after and pulled from the river's grasp. He disobeyed.

Guns do not bite the hands that hold them, yet the Asset has done that and more, his actions the polar opposite of an aimed pistol or a poised knife.

* * *

 

He might not be their tool anymore but he certainly isn't human.

That is the first thing he learns once he's on the streets again, the Smithsonian far behind him. He watches everything, keen gaze leaving not a single stone unturned, and the first conclusion he draws is that he is not one of them. The woman on the phone, dressed in full business attire, has a job with a salary and labor rights. The small boy clinging to the hand of his father, licking at an ice cream cone, is an innocent who knows nothing of what life looks like as it leaves someone's eyes. The teenagers laughing, heads inclined to lean towards each other, have only school and appearances on their minds rather than threat levels and strategies and escape routes.

He wants that, but he isn't foolish enough to place hope into it. He cannot change his nature, something he can imagine the blonde man protesting, saying that Hydra had changed who he was- but he's read the facts. Bucky Barnes was a killer long before the Winter Soldier was.

* * *

 

The first time he tries to eat at a small cafe, he doesn't touch the food that he buys with stolen money, unease prickling up his spine. He has identified seventy ways to kill the man sitting nearby with a laptop, and eighteen different ways he could dispose of his body. He could slam his head into the table with enough force to cause brain hemorrhaging or structural damage. He could snap his neck, or use the computer he pecks away at to cave his skull in. The knife at his side he used to cut his food -some kind of pastry- could enter either his eye or slit his throat. He could choke him, shove the napkin down his throat and close his airways.

So no, with his mind crammed full of death and exits, the muffin on his plate goes untouched. He takes it with him anyways, giving it to a homeless man on the street.

It doesn't make up for anything, and he doesn't feel good about himself like others might. No, he feels nothing at all; at least when he shot people he found a sense of accomplishment.

As he walks once more, he can't help but wonder how they see him, with his ball cap, long hair and tattered clothing. He hopes they don't pity him; he's just the wolf in sheep's clothing, biding his time. For what he doesn't know, except he can feel it building in the bottom of his gut, steadily rising to higher levels, lurking. Waiting.

* * *

 

He finds an apartment building with vacancies, locating one of the empty rooms and sneaking in through the window, their poor security system no match for his honed skills. He curls up on the floor, and tries to sleep, but he hasn't slept by his own volition since...He can't remember. A long time, probably.

He thinks instead of the blonde man, and his bruised face beneath his metal fist, expression resigned. Accepting of his fate. When he fell he can remember the wrongness that screamed through his brain, blaring alarms he could barely process over the roaring of blood in his ears.

Pulling Steve Rogers to shore was the first thing to feel right in his hole bearing memory, and so far that feeling hasn't returned.

He goes to sleep dreaming of alleyways and blue eyes.

* * *

 

He's woken up by his own screaming, managing to cut the hoarse shouting once he realizes it's coming from him. He can't remember what was in the nightmare, but there was the howling of wind and the sensation of dropping; he remains conscious the rest of the night.

The next morning he goes to the cafe again, buying something called a scone and sitting where he had the previous day, the position giving him the ability to see all of the coming and goings.

Today he decides to try eating, attempting to block out the world in favor of nibbling on his food. He doesn't succeed in ignoring his surroundings, but he does eat most of the scone, the taste quite pleasant though foreign, as he doesn't believe he had a varied diet choice before. For some reason he finds that amusing, almost laughable; it's so obvious now that he was never just their weapon. You can't feed something with a trigger.

Unfortunately, as he's roaming down the sidewalk, his stomach rebels abruptly, sending him into a nearby alleyway and vomiting the contents of his belly behind the dumpster. It must have been the scone.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he goes off to continue surveying the city, piecing together a plan while he does. A nearby electronic store has a set of televisions in the windows, playing various news stations, all of them discussing the leak of SHIELD information on the Internet. They like to point fingers and state the obvious, and they each express concerns for the future of the world. It's funny that they think knowing all the secrets will actually change anything; not knowing hadn't.

One station pulls up his file, as well as videos taken of his mission in Washington. He watches with a detached demeanor while they credit him with a list of assassinations, though they don't seem to know who he was before. That's probably a good thing; Bucky Barnes is dead and should be left that way.

He doesn't mean to, but he ends up standing in front of the glass for an hour, absorbing information occurring around the world that he'd been barred from once. And if he pays increased attention to status updates on Steve Rogers' health, well, no one notices, and he has enough denial to fill the Amazon River.

Eventually, he resumes his path, observing couples clasping hands, mothers shooing along curious toddlers, joggers with their dogs, a man exiting a store with a giant stuffed bear that looks to be for the little girl eagerly staring up at him. The images fill him with a deep sort of longing he can't suppress, and he moves on before he does something stupid like feeling sorry for himself.

After a short time he finds a park, easing himself down carefully onto a bench, the one across from him occupied by an older gentleman tossing seeds to a flock of pigeons. He watches, intrigued, as the avians occasionally slip close enough to steal a few from the man's palm, his gloved hand twitching.

Somehow the white haired man notices and looks at him, a friendly smile forming. "Want to help me finish this bag of seed? It's a pretty big job for one person. I figure two can make it go faster."

Mouth dry, he balls his fists, uncertain and more than a little suspicious; he doesn't know this stranger, doesn't trust him, and feeding birds is ridiculous, but a part of him that is apparently very convincing has him nodding. "Good. Come, sit."

Carefully skirting the birds, he assumes the space next to the man, maintaining a clear distance between them. The man merely holds out the bag, and he hesitates for a moment, then scoops a handful out. They both begin to silently feed the birds, scattering seeds about on the cement.

"Did you serve?" The question startles him, as there had been nothing but quiet for the past few minutes.

"Pardon me?" His voice rasps, unused to talking, though maybe it's only remnants of the last night's screaming.

"Were you in the military?"

He doesn't know what makes him say "yes", only that he hadn't had control over it.

"Ah. That's what I thought. You getting by okay, son?" The concern he's being shown is foreign, even more so because it's from a stranger; it elicits a sharp curl behind his ribs, and he isn't sure how he feels about this.

"Yeah."

"My son was in the army," the old man says, tossing a few seeds to the pigeons. "When he was a boy we used to do this every Saturday. Now I do it once a year on the anniversary of his death." He doesn't know why the man is telling him this, revealing something personal that should be kept within a group, not given out to a random person, especially someone like him, whose empathy and sympathy have been flushed down the drain with the blood of everyone he killed. "I'm not telling you this because I need to. I'm telling you this because he killed himself. He had PTSD, and he couldn't get the help for it fast enough. I can see what was in his eyes in yours, and I'd hate for you to think you're alone." This man, he knows more about him than he knows himself, and they've only just met.

"Even if I am alone?"

"Trust me son, you aren't." He looks up into kind eyes, and he quickly turns away, blaming it on the warmth there rather than the fact they're reminiscent of a blonde man with a swollen face. "There are a lot of support groups for former soldiers. Here, I think I-" the senior pauses to rummage through his pockets, until he pulls out a small, crumpled card, which he places between them. He picks it up, reading the words about something called the V.A. There are several times typed in neat lettering. "I always carry some around, just in case I find someone who needs help."

"What if I don't want help?" He still hasn't fully grasped what wanting is, but by now he has an inkling of it, five days after the fall of the helicarriers.

"Then you don't have to take it. It's as simple as that, but I'd prefer you give it a try. Just once." He stares down at the card, swallows heavily, and then he glances at the man again.

"What's your name?"

"Sal. Are you going to tell me yours?" Clever old man.

Toying with the hem of his jacket for a moment, he can't seem to force the words from his throat, the name frozen in a block of ice that refuses to melt.

"It's okay. I'm sure you'll be ready one day." And he goes back to feeding the pigeons, leaving him reeling and more than a little confused. 

"I- thanks. I think." 

"No problem."

* * *

He stays in the apartment for two days, fingering the card in his pocket and staring into space. He doesn't sleep, and when he does he has nightmares, all of them different, all of them the same. He always wakes up with the imagined bite of snow against his face and pain in the flesh of a left arm he no longer has.

On the morning of the third day he finds some more food, though it too is expelled after a half hour onto the ground of an alleyway.

He has the card memorized, but he reads it again anyways, eyes scanning it for something he must have missed. Its corners are worn, and he folds it back into its place, knees drawn up to his chest as he sits against a wall, hat obscuring his face from the nearby cameras.

He makes his decision there, curled on the sidewalk as people pass by, stuck in their own little worlds of black and white. He pulls the paper from his pocket, rips it in half and allows the breeze to carry them away. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He's drifting through the streets as he usually does when he sees a tall, broad shouldered man, his blonde hair reflecting the sun's rays. His heart feels like it's clawed its way up his throat to join the ice there, suffocating him.

He doesn't even think before he's sprinting in the other direction, ignoring the curious and sour glances cast his way by other pedestrians.

* * *

He's surprised that he's managed to remain in the apartment for so long, because every night he decides to bunk there on the floor, he awakes with screams still pouring from his mouth. Maybe they think the apartment is haunted; he is a ghost, after all. It's what they call him, or at least, they used to. 

Nonetheless, he decides to scope out a new place of residence, following people home from work to their neighborhoods in hopes of finding someplace vacant. The third person he tails leads him to another apartment complex, with a sign stating they have room. 

It doesn't take him long to break in, though this time the apartment is already furnished, but why they would want to do so for an empty living space, he isn't sure. He doesn't care either.

Rather than sleep on the bed he stretches out on the carpet, but even it is too soft for sleep to arrive. Eventually he walks himself through mission protocols, which has the opposite effect he'd wanted and has him instead attempting to relax his mind from the memories resurfacing.

That seems to do the trick, because it's lights out a few moments after.

* * *

It's freezing, and dark. There's a steady drip, drip, drip of water in the distant background, far enough away that he pays it no mind. There are hands on his shoulders, pulling him, touching, prodding and turning him this way and that like a puppet or a new doll.

He can't see, he realizes, though it's faint, like his thoughts are registering a million miles away from home. The voices speaking are muffled, a thunderclap whose sound is a mere soft rumble due to the large distance it has to travel. There's a prick in his arm, but again he feels removed from the sensation, floating in nothingness.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing laboriously and resembling someone who has run five miles, not someone who has only woken from a dream.  It's frustrating, because  _he's_ the ghost, the phantom; he shouldn't be haunted by memories he can hardly piece together properly.

It isn't fair, and it makes him angry. 

 Slipping out of the apartment, he aimlessly wanders until he finds another of the shops with televisions perched up for display. There's more news on Steve Rogers, except it is centered around the Avengers, as they are all currently battling some kind of green robot wrecking havoc in Manhattan.

He feels sick to his stomach watching them fight, because he knows what he's doing. He's assessing them, parsing their skills, tallying their strengths and weaknesses because it's the only thing he knows how to do. Iron Man is self-sacrificing, choosing to handle the larger, challenging problems and oftentimes interrupting the group dynamic. Black Widow is fast but she works better in close quarters; he remembers fighting her, sort of. His hand lifts to touch goggles that aren't there anymore.

Hawkeye relies on long distance, and while he can fight hand to hand, he will run out of arrows. The Hulk is unpredictable, and seems more inclined to mindless smashing than anything particularly strategic. As for St-Captain America, he's in need of someone to watch his blind spots. Somehow the punk has managed to make it this far when he's still the largest idiot ever, seriousl-

He viciously kicks that thought away; he can't be Bucky Barnes, he won't ever be Bucky Barnes, so he needs to stop trying to be.

He watches, impassive, while Thor electrocutes the verdant creature, causing it to explode. Tired of knowing that even a genius billionaire, a group of former SHIELD agents/assassins, a god/alien, a scientist with rage issues, and a man from the forties can find a place to belong, he moves on. 

He keeps searching, allowing his feet to draw him wherever the turns take him. As he goes through the city, the buildings around him evolve, shifting from fairly clean structures to ones marred with graffiti, and he keeps going, until they become even more decrepit.

It's in this area that he overhears the sounds of fists hitting flesh, and he should walk on, mind his own business and keep his hands in his pockets, but he's already standing at the mouth of the alley. There's a man in a business suit, three other large men kicking at him- perhaps when he first heard the fight, the man had been standing. Now he isn't. 

There's something that feels...off. Wrong. The men look less like muggers and more like people hired, their movements not as frantic, whereas people wanting money wouldn't stay for long. His conclusion is supported when the man gasps out,"Please! I can pay you twice as much as they are!"

He nearly leaves, right there and then, but one of them pulls out a gun, and the flash of its barrel in the light of the late sun has him moving behind him, snapping his neck before he can pull the trigger. He's got the gun in his hand now, pointing it at one man while holding the other's neck with his left arm. He doesn't pause in between pulling the trigger and choking the other man until his pulse stops.

He drops the body, releasing it from the metal fingers and then tucking the gun beneath his jacket. "Get out of here. If you know what's good for you, leave and never come back."

Nodding hastily, he gathers up his briefcase and scurries off, limping while he does.

Giving the dead men a once over, he knows he doesn't have to dispose of them. Whoever wanted the other man dead is clearly rich enough to do it themselves, without it reaching the news.

Maybe he should feel guilty. Maybe he should regret killing them instead of sending them on their way, but he doesn't. If he hadn't they would have killed that man later, and they would have kept performing whatever circus act they had going on. No, he doesn't feel repentant at all.

He searches their bodies with gloved fingers, retrieving wads of cash and another set of pistols, which he also shoves in his jacket. He crushes their cellphones beneath his boots and, instead of leaving the alleyway where possible witnesses could reside, he climbs the side of the building on the left, scaling it easily. From there on he hops from the roofs.

Sometimes he imagines there's someone chasing him, red white and blue disc held in one hand.

He runs faster.

* * *

He later travels to the V.A., where he knows they have a group meeting occurring. He sneaks in, choosing to stand in the back rather than sit down, watching the man at the front speak of several coping methods and giving inspiring words to the various sorts of people gathered in the seats.

 "Don't forget to take care of yourselves. I know how it is to get caught up in your head, and everything else just doesn't seem as important anymore. But I cannot stress it enough that it's important to eat well and get enough sleep." Someone raises their hand, but he answers their question before they have to ask it. "Nightmares keeping you awake? Just sleep for a few hours at a time. Take more brief naps if you have to. From there you can work your way to a full night."

The old man had good intentions sending him here, but he'd thought he'd served in the war, joined the military. He hadn't. They killed because they did it for their country, for their family, maybe even for a salary.

He didn't have an incentive. They just pointed him in a direction and watched as the destruction commenced.

He leaves when the man begins talking about how crucial it is to have a supportive environment. It tempts him too much, makes him think of Steve Rogers, because he knows the man would take him in no matter what the circumstances are. He doesn't want to have him wake up every morning to see the imposter with his best friend's face.

As for him? It's more like placing a starving man at a feast and saying he can't eat any of it. Steve Rogers represents a life he cannot and should not have. He's not human enough to have a happily ever after added to the end of his story.

When he goes to exit through one of the doors, he bumps into a man he didn't previously see. Looking up, he feels the floor drop out from beneath him, eyes widening involuntarily.

It's the man with the wings, the one that was with Steve.

It's Sam Wilson, and he's smiling at him like he isn't a former assassin whose space has just been breached.

"I've been hoping you'd poke your head around. Care for a cup of coffee?"

* * *

"I've gotta say, you looked better when you were kicking my ass off the helicarrier." He can't help the wince that his words elicit, tearing at the napkin on the table, coffee untouched. "Hey, no hard feelings. Don't worry about it. How've you been holding up?"

"I killed three men today." He doesn't mean to say that, because it doesn't concern Wilson, and he waits for a surprised exclamation, but none comes.

"Why?" The dark skinned man is staring at him, eyes filled with...understanding. That can't be right.

"I...They were mugging a man. They were paid to do it."

"What bothered you more? That they were hurting someone or that they'd clearly had a choice in doing so?" Frustrated, he lifts his gaze from the shredded napkin to glower at Wilson. "Hey, it's a legitimate question, and one that needs answering. You can't get help without expecting to put a little work in first."

"Who says I want help?" He retorts, arms folding over his chest in a defensive manner.

"Don't you? Isn't that why you were there at the V.A.?" The smooth counter is upsetting because he'd hoped to throw Wilson off.

"Stop it! Just stop...analyzing me. There's nothing to fix. I don't need help."

"See, I think you do, and I also think you know that. It's why you haven't gone to New York yet."

"Please, do tell, because it seems like you know me more than I do." Yet again someone reads him like a book, but it's in a language he can't understand. He increases the intensity of his glare instead.

"You know you have to put yourself back together before you find Steve, because you believe he thinks the man he knew from before is still in there and you know you'll try to be someone you aren't when that happens."

"Is he? Is he still in here?"

Wilson cocks his head, considering, before shaking it. "No. Not the man from the forties, but there is a man in there who still wants to take care of Steve Rogers and do the right thing. You just have to find him."

"How?" He doesn't mean to sound so desperate, but he's clutching the table hard enough that his fingers are leaving dents. 

"That I can't tell you. But see, what you think is that Steve expects Bucky Barnes from the World War II era. I'm telling you you're wrong. He just wants you back, whoever you are right now. I know you think that's stupid and doesn't make sense, but- well. Bonds just don't disappear. You feel attached to him too."

"I- yes." Meekly, he lowers his head, inhaling heavily. He doesn't think he can do this, have someone tell him that he's being an idiot by staying away.

"What I suggest? Go to New York. Go to Brooklyn. You don't have to go to Steve right away, just get a feel for the place. Remember." The man shrugs. "That's just my opinion, take it or leave it. There's a nice little apartment I've got in Brooklyn right now, whenever they need me. I can't guarantee it's bug free but you can deal with it. Also, don't steal a car to drive there, man." He pulls something out. Places it on the table.

It's a ticket. "Plane leaves in two days. I booked it a few days ago, kinda hoped you would have come earlier. You don't have to go, like I said, but if that's the case don't take the ticket."

He stares at it, considering his options and the consequences of each. Wilson knows before he does what he does, which is simultaneously disconcerting and comforting.

He takes the ticket.  

"Where can I put my guns?" For some reason that makes Wilson throw his head back and laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! You guys were so great in your comments! Seriously, thank you guys so much, and don't forget to let me know what you think about this chapter as well! ,


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are incredible! Seriously, I was not expecting this kind of feedback.

He makes it to the flight on time, passing through airport security without any issues, even with the metal arm attached to him. Hydra taught him many things, useful things, though they didn't seem to account for the fact that one day he might need socializing skills.

He wishes he'd learned how to have them when not assigned on a mission, because on the flight his mind lived through the past, sending him into scenes and places he must have visited while carrying out an assassination through infiltration. He can smile and act along with the best of them if he's receiving orders to do it. Without a command, he's about as social as a doorknob, except a doorknob receives touches without gearing up to break someone's hand.

He doesn't make it out of his extensive thoughts until they're landing, the steady slope of the plane and the sensation in his stomach sparking a revolt there. He barely makes it to their cramped bathroom in time to vomit, retching despite the lack of food to do so with.

When he finishes, one of the flight attendants asks if he's okay, also telling him he shouldn't have left his seat, but he shrugs her off, disliking the bold red of her lipstick and the dark brown curls of her hair.

He doesn't know why she's sparking a muffled feeling of envy; he does know it's definitely not for her life.

Apparently she must have told someone about him, because while they're preparing to leave the plane, another flight attendant tracks him down, tries to explain the rules to him and why they're there. He stares her down until she finally takes the hint and allows him to move on.

He doesn't think he's ever found something as agitating as people are.

* * *

When he leaves the airport, hailing a cab, he notices two things. One, everything is foreign. It conjures discomfort, addling his brain with the need to familiarize himself with it, discover his surroundings' weaknesses and strengths, and it's enough to have him contemplating hitting his head against the window until he falls unconscious.

Two, which he realizes a bit farther along, they're being followed. He might have thought differently about the situation if the car behind was a taxi, or one with visible civilians; instead it's a black SUV, the typical stalker vehicle, and its windows are darkened considerably. Somebody knows he's in town.

He immediately regrets leaving the pistols with Wilson, and he can't make a correct observation of the threat level if he cannot see how well they are armed; however, he'll fight them no matter what weapons they have, but a head's up is still convenient to have when staying alive.

He directs the cab driver to Brooklyn, the only name he knows of this place other than New York City, and it requires approximately thirty five minutes to reach it. The driver doesn't seem confused by his desire to get out the moment they cross the bridge, merely stating the money he's owed. He hands the amount over, the wad of cash still fairly thick from the quantity he received from the dead men and Wilson.

He looks in the windows of the buildings on his side, seeing the reflection of the SUV that had continued tailing them. It follows him again, somehow managing to prevent the angering of other drivers while maintaining a speed that keeps them just behind him. Deliberately, he turns into an alley, where, now out of their sight, he ducks behind a dumpster.

It would have been better to avoid confrontation, for anyone other than him, as he knows the best way to shake someone off his back is to permanently get rid of them.

He can hear distinct sets of shoes land on the ground, the sound of water splashing from where someone has clipped a puddle. "Come out from behind the dumpster."

Their voice is commanding, refusing to permit any disobedience. They must not know who it is they're dealing with. Backing away, he complies, but only so he can throw the dumpster towards them using his left arm, the sound of it whirring put to the background of the scraping metal and pulled triggers. He'd worry about this winding up on the news if he weren't so preoccupied with dodging a bullet, which strikes the bricks where he once stood.

A man approaches, having stepped around the dumpster, pistol aimed at his chest. He darts in before he can fire, wrapping a hand around his wrist and twisting, sending the man to the ground. He knees him in the face, and then he's shifting, dodging some kind of dart that bounces off the wall. He twirls, catching the next dart that is launched and propelling himself forwards, tackling the man into the pavement and striking his head against the ground until he goes limp. Rising quickly, he searches for his next opponent, not even breathing harshly.

He frowns; only two men for such a large vehicle? Turning, he doesn't manage to block the syringe aimed at his throat, the needle plunging in deep.

The darkness comes for him.

 

* * *

 

When he awakens, a slight throbbing in his skull, he's secured to the chair, and there's some kind of device on his metal arm that is keeping it incapacitated. It hurts, whatever it is; he can feel it in his teeth.

Tightening his jaw, he adjusts his eyes to the dim lighting, making out a few shapes lurking at the other side of the room. The space is enclosed, with a single door and no windows.

"James Buchanan Barnes. Mind if I call you Bucky? Your friends used to, from what I heard." He stiffens, back ramrod straight, and the clicking of heels against concrete is ominous, raking chilled fingers along his vertebrae. "Oh, did I strike a nerve, Sergeant?"

"The man you want doesn't exist anymore."

"Well, you and I know that, don't we? But Steve Rogers?" The woman, whoever she is, chuckles, a cold, eerie sound he hates instantly. "Mm. Captain America. Now there's an experiment that went right. Unlike you, I'm afraid, but Hydra had a fun time with their failure."

He says nothing; he doesn't want to play this game with her, and he's more than happy to keep silent.

"You're not very interesting. I was hoping for a little more...fight." The woman steps into the place where the shadows cannot veil her, but seeing her face elicits no ringing of bells or memories. She's someone he doesn't know. "You killed three of my men in that alley. Not my best agents, but they had their uses. I'm not bothered, but the others didn't take too kindly to it. I'm not against calling them in here to beat you to a bloody stain on the floor."

If that's her version of intimidation, it needs some work; it's more effective on people who haven't been subjected to every kind of torture that exists under the rainbow. It might get her places with them, but she would have better luck purging the world of poverty.

"What is it you want?" She appears pleased by his question, pale face twisting into a grin.

"I want Captain America on his knees at my feet. See, you were a failure, but Hydra was on to something. If their serum had been better, you wouldn't have turned out to be such a disappointment." She walks over to him, brushing her fingers over his bared metal arm. He can only feel the flash of heat but it's enough to make him flinch. "Your little brain has the key to the perfect puppet. Hydra had their bouts of mad genius, I'll give them that."

"What do you want Captain America for?"

"Oh, nothing too large. Think of it as entertainment, and just imagine the look on the faces of Americans when they realize they don't have their precious Captain America around anymore." It sounds like vengeance, except her expression is more dreamy than it is spiteful, and the same goes for her voice. She must be crazy, then. He can't think of any other explanation for it.

"The other Avengers will stop you."

"Them? Ha. Once I have him, I have my bargaining chip."

"But you aren't going to barter."

"No. I'm going to brainwash their super soldier until he can hardly remember how to speak. Either way, the poor dear gets the short end of the stick." She isn't very repentant; so yes, a definite nod on the crazy conclusion. "I can find a way to make it irreversible. Oh, how fun this will all be!"

"They're still going to take you out. Lock you up for the rest of your life." She waves a hand through the air, dismissive.

"Probably. But what difference will it make? This is symbolism, don't you see?" No, he doesn't; maybe once he might have, but he can't now.

"Symbolism? You're going through all of this for the sake of figurative language?" Without wincing, he dislocates his thumb of his right hand, removing it from the cuffs. He keeps them where they are though, deciding to wait for the proper time to strike.

"You just can't grasp the deeper meaning. Such a shame, really. Allow me to-" He doesn't allow her the air to finish, surging up from the chair and twining the chain of his restraints around her throat. She claws at him, but he slams her against the wall until she becomes pliant, limp.

He drops her in the place he was formerly sitting when a few of her men burst in through the door, light from the corridor bleeding into the formerly dark space. They're slow to raise their weapons, because by the time the individuals leading the charge have attempted to fire a shot, he's ripping the pistols from their hands, likely breaking a few fingers, and then he's kicking them into the agents behind.

For such an ambitious group, their combat skills are lacking.

It doesn't take him long to finish them all, and when they're all subdued, he turns to the woman, who is now waking up, eyelids fluttering slowly.

"I suggest you listen closely to what I'm going to say. If you don't, I will not hesitate to spray this wall with your brains." Eyes wide, pupils enlarged -she's concussed, probably- she mumbles what might be a yes. "Good." 

* * *

 He finishes with her twenty minutes later, the knuckles of his right hand carrying her blood, which he wipes off on the suit of one of her coworkers. Thankfully he manages to deactivate whatever it was on his arm, and the persistent waves of pain resonating from it have gone, providing a welcomed relief.

He still has his back to the door when the sound of it opening has him tensing, whirling to face his next attacker, gun aimed, but what happens next has him freezing, unable to move and with his air caught in his windpipe.

"Bucky?"

Steve Rogers is staring at him, face drained of color and looking as though he's seeing both a ghost and a friend who's been away for too long.

He's neither of those things, and for once, he experiences regret.

"Looks like we're late to the party," someone remarks, and it snaps him out of whatever trance he's in, causing him to take a step back, then another and another until he hits the wall, lungs scrambling for oxygen.

He can't see himself escaping this one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you guys are amazing!!! Thanks so much for your lovely comments :)

"Bucky?"

His eyes sweep the room, looking for another exit that he knows won't exist, because he checked earlier, when the unconscious woman was playing interrogation.

He looks up, meets Steve's eyes, and he feels like everything he worked so hard to build is crumbling like sand castles struck by waves. It's too soon, he can't do this, he can't, this is too soon why did this have to-

"Hey, Buck, deep breaths, come on." And suddenly Steve is close, too close, one hand gently rubbing his shoulder and it's nice, but it's tearing down his foundations faster than he can say stop. He was supposed to have more  _time._

Should've known that life wasn't going to allow him time to heal. It never had; he shouldn't have expected that everything would work out in his favor when nothing did.

"You're bleeding." Steve goes to press fingers against the wound on his cheek (must've gotten it earlier) with a touch he knows will be gentle. Doesn't keep him from shoving his hand away, though the flash of hurt on Steve's face is enough to elicit a ghost of regret.

"Not that this isn't a heartbreaking reunion and all, but we have to get going. This place is set to explode in five minutes." The tinny voice of Iron Man comes from the doorway, where the flashy hued suited man is casually leaning against the door frame.

"You act like I haven't been paying attention," Steve answers, rising from where he was kneeling- when had that happened? He can't remember going to his knees, but apparently he did- and looking to Stark.

Steve doesn't hold out a hand for him, which he's glad for because he doesn't want to have to knock it away a second time. He's not helpless, he can stand on his own without needing a set of training wheels, which is exactly what he does. "How did you know I was here?" If Rogers is surprised by the question, it doesn't show. 

"People don't miss gunshots, or an assassin being lugged into a van." It's Stark who answers, sounding bored, but while he's a good actor he doesn't miss the underlying intrigue there.

"Yay," he deadpans, glaring at the both of them. Now that his head is clearing he has an increasing need to get the hell out of dodge, something Rogers seems to realize as well, because he's drifting closer.

"Okay, time to go." As much as he dislikes doing so, he follows them out, exiting what must have been an abandoned Hydra base. It bursts into flames moments after they're a safe distance away.

Rogers and Stark have begun to discuss something concerning the chain of command, but he doesn't stay to listen, turning and sprinting for the vehicle nearby. It's strange that they have it, considering Rogers, from what he's seen in the news, typically catches a ride with Stark, so who else would they-

He's impacting with the ground after a red haired blur appears, a garrote wire wrapping around his neck, reminiscent of their fight on the bridge that he catches glimpses of. He tosses his head back, managing to catch her nose with his skull, the blow strong enough that her grip loosens a fraction. It allows room for him to escape the wire, and he reaches back to grab a fistful of hair, pulling her down while he rises. She lands in the dirt at his front, already on her feet and rushing him, curling a leg behind his to throw his balance, but he moves with her, landing a punch to her kidneys with his left arm.

In the next moment, he's on his back, a heavy suit of metal alloy pinning him down. "Don't move, Terminator."

He's smart enough to know he's lost this one. Again.

* * *

 A quinjet arrives, only because they don't trust him enough to remain secure in their other vehicle. They load him on, his hands cuffed with bonds Stark tells him are made of adamantium, like it's something he's supposed to be familiar with.

Black Widow is sitting across from him, her nose swelling and parts of her scalp bleeding, from where he'd ripped out her hair. She wears a mask of stony indifference, eyes never leaving his, though eventually, someone in the cockpit -Barton, probably- calls for her.

He wishes she'd come back, because as soon as she leaves, Rogers is taking her place, an unbearably earnest expression formed with his concerned blue eyes and the wrinkle between his brow. "How about you take a picture. It'll last longer."

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Rogers, damn him, hasn't stopped staring.

"No." A lie, and Rogers knows it, if the confused flash is anything to go off of.

"How's our second favorite Russian holding up?" 

"Stark."

"Aww, you know my name." The billionaire sits in a chair next to Rogers, faceplate up and grin bared.

"And you know mine. What's your point?"

"I don't have one. Just thought it was sweet of you to bother." Stark shrugs, nonchalant. He doesn't like him very much. Rogers does, if the exasperated yet fond glance he sends the man's way.

He doesn't like that either.

"Need anything, Buck?" 

"Don't call me that." He doesn't mean for it to come out so harsh, but it's too late to do anything about it, and the blonde's expression shutters, shoulders hunching. 

"Chill, Stolichnaya."

"Already did. Don't feel like doing it again." Stark laughs, but the comment has Rogers pushing away from the table and stalking off somewhere. He's not proud of that, and at the same time he is.

"Don't mind Steve, he's just caught up in the fact his best friend's alive when he thought he was dead, and that his best friend isn't actually pals with him anymore."

"Yeah? What makes you think that?"

"I grew up idolizing you guys. I knew everything there was about Captain America and his Howling Commandos. Steve's not the guy I used to watch footage of, and neither are you. For one, you shaved better."

He scowls at that, hands tightening in his lap. He doesn't appreciate the man's persistent jabbing. "But in all seriousness, Steve just needs a little time. Not seventy years, mind you, but just enough so he can get his head back on straight. He never really got to properly mourn you, you know." Stark stands after his small speech, giving him a wink. "Sit tight, we'll land in an hour."

* * *

When they escort him off the ramp and onto the platform, he stops to look down, where the ground rests at least seventy stories down. Rogers notices him staring -of course he does- and raises his eyebrows, moving closer, as though he expects him to try jumping. He might have, but he doesn't like how the man is constantly hovering, and with a glare shot his way, he marches on like a caged animal.

Inside of Avengers Tower, the furnishings are of course extravagant, and, he suspects, tailored to meet the needs of each member, something he sees while they lead him through the building to a containment area. Or at least, an apartment he's sure is meant to be one.

"First things first: you're not a prisoner." Stark has left his suit, and he claps his hands together to signal the beginning of some spiel.

"Really."

"Yes. You have freedom, it's just strongly advised that you don't leave, because I don't know if you've noticed, but that crazy lady was one of many who either want their toy back or have a vendetta against Steve. JARVIS, oh right, hey buddy introduce yourself."

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes. I am Just A Rather Very Intelligent System, or JARVIS. I am an Artificial Intelligence and I monitor the tower."

"Among other things. Where is this humility coming from?"

"I was merely being polite, sir." To him, it sounds like the robot-intelligence thing is being sarcastic. Not surprising, if Stark's the one who programmed it. 

 "Anyways, Jarvis will help you with anything you need. If you can't turn on the TV, ask Jarvis. Don't know how to make a sandwich? Ask Jarvis. Need help getting it up, and Jarvis-"

"Enough, I'm sure he gets the point," Rogers interrupts, his cheeks now a light shade of red. He wonders why; from what he can remember, Rogers was never a prude. A little reserved but never a blushing, shy little dame.

"This is my cell?"

"Correction: apartment. Though it's better than any apartment in the city and you're welcome, by the way. I can't imagine where you would all be without me."

"In peace," Rogers replys wryly, his cheeks already cooled from the crimson shade they'd taken; interesting that it leaves as fast as it goes. Could he time it next time? 

 "Anyways, we'll be going now. Settle in, kick your feet up, just don't kill anyone and we'll be good."

"I dunno, I think I'd be doing everyone a favor if I offed you, Stark."

"Where do they make you people? Seriously? Did Brooklyn have a whole industry producing sarcastic people?"

"Ask your dad. He made you." For some reason that doesn't have the effect he'd hoped for; Stark's smile goes plastic and forced, something for the public rather than in the environment of a private space. Even Rogers winces.

"Okay, have fun, see you later." And the man is sweeping out of the room, exiting via the elevator while studiously ignoring them now.

It's awkward with Stark now, Rogers standing and simply looking at him, as though he's an enigma to decipher or a miracle he hasn't seen before. Shifting uncomfortably snaps him out of it.

"Oh, um, do you want me to go?" He appears so hopeful for him to say he can stay, but there's a resigned set to his shoulders; he already knows what the answer is going to be.

He shakes his head.

"All right. That's fine. I'll see you when I see you." And he too departs; he doesn't look back, and that's fine with him. He'd change his mind if he did.

* * *

 He doesn't sleep well that night, his dreams amalgamations of the past and present, memories blending with recent ones to form chilling imagery.

At one point he's under the knife, strapped to a table while the woman with a grudge against Rogers laughs, splitting open his skin with her blade. "Red! How patriotic of you!" 

In the next moment, he's on the helicarrier again, but he's squaring off against James Barnes, whose face is the one of the soldier in the Smithsonian. The man isn't smiling, instead glowering with a fury burning in his cobalt eyes. "How could you kill me?"

"What?"

"You killed me. This is your fault." Everything flickers, and he's standing with the barrel of his gun pressed to Bucky's forehead. "Do it. Pull the trigger, come on. Do it! Are you scared? You didn't hesitate before! Shoot me. Shoot me, you coward."

He wakes up at the sound of a gunshot, finding himself in his body with a pistol in his hands. He doesn't know what's happening, or how he got the gun or if he's shot someone, and he drops the weapon, hands shaking uncontrollably. Rogers bursts in not five seconds later, shield in hand, which he drops almost immediately, realization dawning on his face.

Rogers takes a step forward, but he halts when he screams,"STOP!"

"Bucky, hey, it's okay. You're safe." The man holds up his hands in a placating gesture, his tone soft as the cotton candy they ate that day on Coney Island-

"Stay away from me!" 

"Okay. Okay, I'll just sit here." He lowers himself into the chair, and he only now discovers he'd fallen asleep on the couch. Sloppy. What would they say if they saw him like this? Weak and vulnerable, shaking like a leaf in a strong wind because he can't handle a few memories.

He starts laughing, loud and bitterly, Stark leaving the room from where he must have come earlier. He bows from the force of the crazed guffaws, and they gradually develop into full body sobs; he can't control himself, can't even stop bawling like some damned baby separated from its mother, and there's something wrong with him, he knows it.

Strong arms wrap around his torso, and at first he fights it, jerking away, but they don't let go. They don't.

The gentle stroke of a hand over the back of his head lulls him to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long guys!

They're talking about him. 'They' meaning Steve and his friends, congregated in the other room behind a closed door. He has no qualms with eavesdropping, though Jarvis' silence (a strange name but he's fairly sure it's from Europe) is surprisingly disapproving. Too bad he doesn't care what a high tech robot thinks.

"-you're compromised, Steve." Natalia. Natasha, as she goes by now.

"Why? Because I care about him? That doesn't mean I can't make the right decision when it comes to him. Excuse me for believing that turning him in is the best thing to do."

"This Soldier of Winter, he is a very formidable warrior, is he not? From the stories Steven has regaled us with, he was not always a man of death. Is it not you Midgardians who believe in second chances?" Thor. They haven't had a chance to meet properly but apparently Steve has talked about him enough that the guy believes Steve.

"Okay, so second chances are a thing, but this is- this is the Winter Soldier. He's killed people because he was told to, and he has no memory of his past, does he Steve?"

"What? He does! He has nightmares every night, Tony. You tell me what he's dreaming about because it sure as hell isn't rainbows and unicorns." After that their voices blend together, fighting for dominance, until one calmly spoken question has them all pausing.

"You realize he's standing outside the door, right?" Bruce Banner. The Hulk, and a man with colossal anger issues.

There's some hushed whispering, but he doesn't take more than a second to push the door open and enter the room, feeling all of their eyes on him the moment he does. 

"What was it you were deciding without me about me?" He knows what it is, but he wants to watch them admit it, wants to see if they're embarrassed or if they're just as casual as before.

"The man of the hour. Were your ears tingling? It's an old saying; if your ears tingle it means-"

He cuts Stark off, saying,"that someone is talking about me, yes, thank you for the unnecessary commentary." Stark purses his lips, but he doesn't seem deterred from whatever it was he'd been after. He wonders where the attitude from yesterday went, when Stark was almost playful in his demeanor and had seemed supportive.

Maybe he's finally come to his senses.

"We're talking about what to do with you."

"And I'm trying to convince them that you can stay," Steve butts in, casting a glare that could send anyone to their knees if they weren't the infamous -famous, whatever- Avengers. Given that is who these people are, it merely elicits a few averted gazes.

"Why? They're right. I should go." He shrugs, every muscle in his body tense and his language purposefully set to distance himself from them.

Steve's staring at him with hurt slipping across his features like the light of the sun streaming in through one of the windows, but far less warm. "That's not true, Bucky."

He exhales through his nose. "I don't know who that is anymore, and you don't either. It's best you just forget that name." _Forget you ever tasted it, forget you ever said it, thought it, shouted it, laughed-_ He presses his lips together tightly, flattening them against the sudden building of emotion that he is quick to harness and package.

"That's not fair, I _do_. And so will you."

"This is all very heartbreaking, but you guys have time to talk about your history later. Right now we need to figure out if Michael Myers here is going to stay or leave."

"I wore a mask when I killed people but I never did it with a kitchen knife, Stark." For some reason that has every pair of eyes save his and Romanov's darting away, like doing so somehow shields them from the truth. Yeah, right. "What? Does that make you uncomfortable? It shouldn't. Killing people isn't the worst thing I've done."

"But it wasn't you!" Steve exclaims, throwing his hands into the air, frustration clear. "Bucky, come on, you know-"

"Let's vote on it," Barton says from where he's sitting on a table, one leg dangling while the other is bent on the surface. "We're a team, and we live here together. The way I see it, we should all have a say in how this goes down." Steve- Rogers, stop calling him Steve- contrary to his supposed patriotic and all-American self, doesn't appear too enthusiastic about democracy, but it's clear that he isn't a man to abuse his power.

Not like the many men he's known. Folding his arms, he watches them all silently converse with one another, until Stark nods and says,"Okay, all in favor of the deadly assassin bunking here, raise your hand." Rogers, Thor, and Banner each raise their hands. "All in favor of sleeping well at night, raise your hand." Rogers' jaw tightens at that, the affection from before seeming to have vanished, and that makes it obvious he and Stark haven't found a harmony to go along with their friendship yet.

Stark, Romanov, and Barton each raise their hand, making the situation more complicated considering they're now at a draw. Apparently, this calls for another debate, because immediately they're discussing in a heated manner, some with calm gestures and others, like Stark and Rogers, squaring off as though they're about to duel.

"Enough!" The voice is thunderous, and he realizes belatedly that it belongs to him. Instantly, the room is silent, giving him the floor for the time-being. "I should get a vote too."

"Why? The 'A' on this tower doesn't stand for assassin, even though we have a few members with that particular skill set. It stands for a team that you aren't part of." It doesn't hurt, because it's the truth, and he couldn't agree more, except-

The previous night's happenings flash through his head, the first time he's managed to sleep comfortably because someone -Rogers- was keeping him grounded. Alone in Wilson's apartment won't cure him of his nightmares, and while this won't either, he can get closer to that.

On the other hand, he's dangerous. He doesn't know what's left of Hydra's weapon, what triggers that could snap at any moment, what conditioning could have him killing Rogers in his sleep. He knows his programming is still there because he can feel it pulsating behind his eyes. It's only a matter of time before the flimsy walls he's managed to throw up fall beneath it, and the aftermath would be disastrous.

"It's his life we're talking about. He should get to vote."

"Should he? He could kill us all in our sleep, Steve."

"Any of us could, Tony. We're all capable of it but it doesn't mean we will." Stark sighs heavily at this, his frustration appearing to mount.

"And up until a few days ago, he was. That man has been an assassin far longer than anyone here and that's not something you can kick to the curb."

"All the more reason to give him aid, is it not?" Thor chimes in, raising a blonde eyebrow.

"No, it's all the more reason to point him in the government's direction."

"I didn't raise my hand because I think he's dangerous." Romanov's frost laced tone cuts through their argument like a knife through butter. "I raised my hand because this isn't the place for him. We all lead busy lives, and we can't expect Jarvis to act as a babysitter when he isn't tangible. He needs recovery and this is not the best place to find it, not when we can't be available for him."

"It's the best option there is," Rogers returns, his chin jutting out in a way that stirs familiarity within his mind.

"No, it isn't, Steve. There are therapists and psychiatrists, people who used to be a part of SHIELD and know how to handle these situations."

"How can we trust them when SHIELD had Hydra growing inside of it the whole time?"

"I'll go." This freezes the group, Rogers' words dying in his throat, replaced by a heavy hurt that he tries to hide but fails. "I...I have a place. I can take care of myself and I don't need anyone doing that for me."

They don't say anything to that, and he turns to leave, never looking back but catching Steve's reflection in a framed photograph as he walks out. He looks like someone has punched him repeatedly in the gut and pushed him out of a tree to shove all the breath from his lungs.

He wishes he hadn't seen it.

* * *

 

 

He locates Wilson's apartment without any trouble, finding it to be already furnished, and it looks lived in despite knowing that the opposite is true. It's a good enough position for him to recuperate, to find...To find whoever he is now, and to figure out what his next step is.

He resolutely does not allow his thoughts to turn to the lonely days ahead of him, because he can't run back to Rogers when things get tough. He has to rely on himself, gain back what was taken from him.

Maybe then he can go to Rogers, but only then.

* * *

 

He doesn't sleep in the bed that night. He can't, the mattress too easy to sink into, so he drags the covers off and piles them on the floor, where he lays down, a knife beneath his pillow and one strapped to his thigh. For anyone else it's excessive; for him it isn't enough.

He dreams of syringes and bone saws, black chairs and mouth guards, cheap pomade and dancing halls, blue eyes and blonde hair. He wakes, confused, torn between regarding it as a nightmare or as a mere dream, and in the end he blocks it from his head, occupying himself with checking all the locks and exits twice.

It's one in the morning; he goes back to his pile of blankets and this time, he isn't plagued by dreams.

* * *

 

"That will be seven dollars and eight cents." There's a part of him that cringes at the cost, but it's the nonchalant side that forks over the proper amount in rumpled bills and stained coins. He plucks up the bag holding cereal and milk, giving the cashier woman an awkward nod before walking away, left hand in his pocket.

He doesn't know if the cereal is something he can digest properly, the same with milk, but he's going to need something to act as sustenance, especially now that he's aware of his hunger. As their asset, he hadn't been knowledgeable of any function save the pain from his missions.

Head down, he walks his way back to Wilson's apartment, careful not to bump anyone and flinching away whenever someone does, the fleeting contact jarring. His eyes are constantly sweeping, absorbing details to make assessments; the lady passing him as a bulge in her purse that is likely a handgun, and the man chatting away into his cellphone at the crosswalk has a tan line around his left ring finger, the conversation likely concerning a recent divorce from the way his tone sounds aggravated.

He continues this inspection until he's at the door of the apartment, entering a space more familiar than the one outside, where the sights and smells are overwhelming. He pulls down one of the few cups in a cabinet, twisting the cap off the milk and pouring the liquid into the container.

_Suddenly he's in a dark room, file on the table, his handler in the kitchen, glass of milk in his hand. There's a gun and there's a woman calling out. His handler sips from the cup, and then there's a gunshot, and another-_

He snaps back to the present when the milk overflows, surging over the edge of the counter to spill onto the floor, and there's so much of it. Too much.

He sets the carton down, grabs a dish towel in a nearby drawer and cleans up the mess, making sure he's thorough, mopping away every last drop. Afterwards he has to rush to the bathroom and gag into the toilet.

* * *

 

There's a knock on the door, and the time on the oven says it is ten thirty at night. Automatically his hand goes for the knife at his thigh, until Stark's voice calls through the door,"Hey, it's just me, your friendly neighborhood billionaire."

Still gripping his weapon, he opens the door, glaring at the man who is rocking on his heels outside the apartment. "What do you want?"

"I want to apologize." Frowning, he steps away, motioning with his hand for Stark to enter, closing the door and locking it quickly.

"What for?"

"Nice place you have here. Who set you up? Did you make a few friends during-"

"What. For." Stark holds up both hands in a mildly placating gesture, and it is now that he sees the air of stress hanging around the man. If he were to remove his sunglasses (at ten thirty?) it is likely there would be dark circles there.

"I was...hasty in what I said back there. I was reading through everything leaked, and-" Stark sighs, running a hand through tangled brown hair. "There was a hint that you were the one who killed my parents."

His brows furrow; he can't ever recall killing the Starks, but it's possible. He can understand Stark's swift change of heart concerning his stay.

"But I kept reading, after you left." Here, the brunette looks embarrassed, a huff escaping his mouth. "They planned to have you do it but you, and I'm quoting the file here, 'malfunctioned.' So I'm sorry that I got you kicked out of the tower; it was wrong of me to presume."

"Don't be so full of yourself," he answers, surprising the two of them with the joke. "It wasn't wrong of you. I would have expected it, if I knew."

"Still, I'm sorry. I can convince the others to-"

"No. I meant it when I said I don't need anyone helping me."

"Okay, how about I leave you this." Stark places a card on the table before he heads for the door, the movement eliciting an involuntary tensing from him. "Anything you need to buy, use that card."

"I said that I don't-"

"And I heard you. Don't consider it help. Consider it a favor."

"A favor."

"Yeah. A favor for me knowing you aren't starving and deprived."

"This is about your guilt." Stark shrugs.

"Yes and no. Just keep it on you." When he opens his mouth the argue, the shorter man is already exiting, whistling as he goes down the corridor. Someone up the hall bangs on the wall in response, and he can't help it- he laughs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I'm moving and updates will be slow :(  
> 

_"Look at me."_

_"No."_

_"Look. At. Me."_

_"No." His face is wrenched forward, clammy fingers like steel vices on his chin, beady eyes narrowing._

_"Would you like me better if I look like this?" And then he's changing, shifting, a woman with bright brown eyes and brown hair that falls in soft ringlets, ruby red lips curved into a shy smile. It makes him sick, has his stomach roiling, twisting and turning and she keeps smiling. "Or how about this?" Blue eyes, golden hair flopping in a graceless curve to the side,_ damn it Steve _put some pomade in it-_

_"NO!"_

_"I thought you'd like that one. Oh well." Flash of silver, blade slipping across pale skin leaving crimson droplets in its wake that turn into a river and it's roaring, roaring and there's a train and he's falling,_ Steve, _and it's cold and he's in the chair, lost and confused,_ But I knew him, _wipe him and start over, flesh beneath his fist, metal against his memories, punch them again and again, swollen eyes,_ Til' the end of the line-

"STEVE!" He's reaching, his metal arm outstretched, closing around air, and he swallows, feeling the scratchiness of his throat. His muscles are quivering, his skin too tight for his body, and his harsh pants are heavy in the silence of the apartment. Then he realizes whose name he has called.

Groaning, he rises from the pile of blankets on the floor, and he grimaces at the sweat that cools, leaving him shivering for a different reason. He walks on unsteady legs into the bathroom, and he doesn't even bother to turn on the light before he's stripping away his bottoms and climbing into the shower. He turns the knob to heat, and the shuddering doesn't stop until the steam is thick in the air.

This is the fourth time since Stark visited that he has woken with Rogers' name on his lips, and it is the fifth time he has had nightmares. It's been six days from the night the man came to settle his conscience, and the one instance the nightmares hadn't come was because he'd spent the day wearing himself out shopping. Funny how it is the mundane, "human" tasks that spared him from interrupted sleep.

When he's dressed again, he pours a bowl of- he peers at the box- Captain Crunch, which he knows is unhealthy but that isn't going to stop him from liking it. His palette is still unused to anything that isn't bland and essentially tasteless; forgive him if he wants to indulge himself a little.

The clock says it's three a.m., and he turns on the T.V., performing a double take when he sees that they have the words "Breaking News" flashing across the screen. Breaking news? At three? He wasn't aware many people are functional at that hour (after all, he's killed so many of them while they slept well past six).

"We are coming to the early viewers live, with The Avengers engaging what appears to be a newer crime organization." The video feed zooms in on the Avengers, except the only Avengers present are Captain America and Black Widow. They're handling themselves adeptly, but they are outnumbered, and-

It's her. The woman who took him from the alley and spouted nonsense about symbolism and how she wanted Captain America.

Shit.

* * *

"Steve!" Natasha shouts, and he whirls, blocking the bullets fired with his shield, which he promptly launches into the three men, knocking their guns away. He leaps, catches his shield, and then spins to avoid a kick whose owner he socks in the jaw, sending him flying back into the operative behind.

"How many of you are there?" He demands a tad breathlessly, shoving back one attacker and then delivering a roundhouse kick to the next one, who was holding a syringe gun. That doesn't mean anything good. "Natasha, they've got-"

"Syringes, yeah," is her grim reply, and he catches a bit of her red hair in his peripheral vision. "It's just a sedative." What?

"How did you-"

"I injected one of them with it, and he fell unconscious."

"Before or after you kicked him in the face?"

"After." He winces, though he doesn't have much sympathy for people trying to be the next group to kidnap Black Widow and Captain America. There's a reason none of the groups have succeeded in their malicious plans.

"To your left Widow!"

"Got him." Suddenly, a line of men collapse, red blossoming from their armor. It's undoubtedly a sniper, and immediately Steve is scanning the surrounding buildings for the telltale glint of a barrel, which is hard to do when it's nearly four in the morning.

"Sniper! He's on the roof of the building with the purple logo!" As soon as he speaks, he feels the whizz of a bullet breaking air next to his cheek, and when he turns, one of the agents are in mid-fall. Steve looks to the building again, heart in his throat and pounding quickly, a rabbit being chased by a fox. "Bucky?"

* * *

He can't hear what Rogers says, obviously, but he can see through the scope the shape of his mouth, and his own lips flatten into a thin line in response. He thinks his friend is up here, protecting him, which is partially true, but he's doing this so an enemy doesn't have Captain America for a weapon. Not because Rogers is his best friend.

The man wouldn't think of him the same way if he knew how he was able to find the sniper rifle, and why. He wouldn't like the fact that every major city has a stash that Hydra left behind, and that he knows where they are because he's used all of them before.

With the last of the operatives down (dead, but some are alive, if they were lucky to have Rogers or Romanov), he stands and puts away his equipment, slinging the bag over his left shoulder when he finishes. Rogers is looking up at him again, but without the scope, he can't tell if he's saying anything.

It's for the best, he tells himself, and it's definitely not disappointment that he feels.

* * *

He's on the news when he turns it on again four hours later. Apparently someone managed to snap a photo of him from their apartment, and he curses himself for being so sloppy that someone with a flip phone can capture a picture.

The anchors are discussing the deaths of the men he'd killed, and whether or not a warrant should be issued for his arrest. There's an argument that he's a hero with unconventional methods, and an argument that he's a homicidal maniac. It would be amusing if it wasn't _him_ that they were talking about.

He wishes they would go back to reporting politics. He'd rather hear about bigots and whether or not democrats are better than republicans than listen to the speculation over his intentions. Especially when he himself doesn't know, not really.

Officially in an even worse mood now, he stomps around the apartment, cleaning aggressively and viciously until everything is sparkling. He could eat off the damn toilet if he wanted to (he spends enough time in front of it anyways). He puts away the supplies, and then it dawns on him.

He's...he's acting _normally._ As in he could maybe, just maybe, passing for a person, except he knows that it takes more than cleaning as a coping method and grocery shopping to make a human. So much for his great moment of realization.

Shoulders slumping, an ache in the left thanks to the combination of the metal and the heavy bag he'd hauled here earlier, he stretches out on the couch face down. Gradually, his eyelids begin to drift shut, fluttering until they eventually give out beneath the pressure and close, showering blessed darkness over him.

* * *

_"Look at him."_

_"I can't."_

_"Can't, or won't, sergeant?"_

_"I can't!" No, close your eyes, don't look, don't look at him._

_"You're just being stubborn." Bony chin raised defiantly, eyes snapping, 4F,_ I've got no right to do any different,  _coughing and shaking, skin feverish, clinging to life even as it slips away,_ Keep your eyes open Stevie,  _bloodied nose and knuckles, black eye and split lip but he's grinning and he's beautiful, so beautiful it hurts,_ I had 'em on the ropes,  _bent over outside the Cyclone, three times, but didn't chicken out the little obstinate punk,_ I'm gonna get you for this later Barnes,  _sketchpad perched on knobby knees, slim fingers curled around a pencil and he's the best thing, the best-_

_"Administer three more doses."_

_"But sir, that's much higher than he can handle, I don't think-"_

_"Do it." A pinch, and then pain, fire licking beneath his skin and there are worms burrowing in his eyes and his flesh is peeling, he doesn't have a face anymore Steve it hurts it hurts save me-_

"STEVE!" It's deja vu when he wakes to the sound of his own shouting, and by now it's a routine: sleep. Nightmares. Scream. Wake up. Do it all over again the next night.

He can't take it anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did any of you watch Ant-Man? Because the after credits fucked me up, pardon the language, and I need to know I'm not the only one hit in the feels  
> Also, sorry for the late update  
> I really suck at keeping a schedule

He needs help. Supposedly this epiphany is some sort of catalyst to the healing process, according to various people on the Internet, but he doesn't like admitting that he needs to heal. This mental recuperation, this 'road to recovery' humiliates the programming that still has his brain under its vices. There's a piece of his mind that yells  _wrong, wrong_ whenever he manages to sleep without nightmares for a few brief hours, and it blares alarms once he acknowledges that it's time to read the list Romanov gave him before he left.

All the names that are written in crisp, neat penmanship are unfamiliar, though that isn't actually surprising. There are phone numbers listed next to each, as well as addresses and emails, and he's surprised she's entrusted him with so much information regarding former SHIELD agents. None of them should give him anything- Wilson, Stark, Romanov, Rogers. They should be slapping a pair of cuffs on his wrists and leaving him to the government for trial, for judgement, except here he is, living comfortably in an apartment in Brooklyn.

He has crumpled the paper before he can stop himself, teeth gritting against the hatred and guilt that swell and wash over him, dousing him heavily. He needs help but maybe he deserves this. Maybe this is penance for all the lives he's ruined, and maybe it's best that he throws the list away right now, so he doesn't run off to destroy someone else's life. He has enemies, after all, ones that would easily take notice of an assassin seeking therapy, and who wouldn't hesitate to use any method they could get their paws on.

He nearly tosses it into the trash, except there's a part of him that is convincing enough to persuade him to set it aside rather than tear it up and dispose of it. Grudgingly, he shoves it into a drawer and goes to work through some exercises.

* * *

There's a knock at the door, almost tentative, and he hopes this won't be the second time he has to glare away some kids trying to sell him cookies. With a pistol tucked into his pants, he cautiously looks through the peephole, and when he does he shoves himself away from the door, panic wrapping icy fingers around his throat.

It's Rogers.

He knows what the man will see when he opens the door: a disheveled, scruffy individual with bloodshot eyes and prominent dark rings beneath his eyes. He also knows that when he opens the door he's beckoning in temptation, the desire to latch onto the person who would shoulder his weight with no complaints, who would give him everything he could if he thought it would make him better.

The man who sees his best friend when he looks at him, something he wants. Desperately. He wants that human contact to make him feel less of a machine, of a broken plaything hiding away in the corner because it's too afraid to ask for help.

He doesn't answer the door.

* * *

The knock comes at the same time every day for three days, and he can't take it anymore. He can't- he can't have himself becoming dependent on Rogers and the aura of hope he brings, but neither can he suffer the increasingly more subdued expressions on his face that show he's hurting him despite sparing him.

So on the fourth day, he opens the door. 

Startled, Rogers then recovers easily, determination written in his clenched jaw and squared shoulders. He looks so much like the small blonde man from his dreams that it hurts to have him so far away. "What do you want."

"I wanted to see you."

"Now you have. Go." He flattens his voice, deadens it. It's far easier than it should be.

"I want to help, Bucky." Blue eyes meet his, impossibly plaintive.

"I don't want help."

"You do. I know you do."

"You don't know  _anything_ about me." Rogers' face is stricken by the vehemence injected into his tone, but he doesn't leave. If anything he more firmly roots himself in place.

"I know that your first kiss was with a girl named Lauren and that scar you have by your right elbow is where you accidentally burned yourself cooking. I know that you hate fish because of the one time you missed a few bones and ended up choking on them. I know that you used to feed some cats by the docks because there weren't enough rats for them to eat and you always did like kittens. I know that-"

"Enough!" Steve -Rogers, damn it- blinks, but he doesn't look frightened by the outburst, merely concerned, a furrow forming between his brow that he's seen before, so many times before but those aren't his memories. They can't be, even if they warm that cold, hardened place in his chest until it breaks and it hurts but at least he can  _feel_ something that isn't hatred and rage and despair. 

"-ky?" Rogers' face comes into focus, and he doesn't know why his vision is blurry in the first place, why there's a wetness on his cheeks but there are thumbs swiping away the trails and he's pitching forward into a broad chest, his face pressed against soft cotton and heat that his bones soak in eagerly, like shriveling plants of winter finally exposed to the sun.

"I can't do this," he whispers into a hard shoulder, fingers clenched tight in the fabric of a shirt. "I can't. I can't, I tried but-"

"It's okay, Buck." There's the weight of a hand resting on his back, firm and gentle, and he shudders on an inhale. 

"No it isn't. I shouldn't be- FUCK!" He wrenches himself away, knots his digits in his hair, pulling hard against the unwelcome uselessness and helplessness. "I can't even speak properly. There's something- there's something  _wrong_ with me."

"That's not true, Bucky, I-"

"Isn't it?" He lets out his breath in a long hiss, dropping his hands to his side where they ball into fists, one metal and unforgiving and the other capitulating flesh and blood. "I can't go anywhere. I don't want to leave because out there-" He flings out an arm to gesture to the covered windows, "Out there it's too much. I look at people and I see their weaknesses, I see how easy it would be to kill them and make it look like an accident. I see them and they're everything I'm not. I am not  _right._ And there's so much in my head, Steve -Rogers, Rogers, not Steve." He couldn't bring himself to turn his gaze over to the other man, knowing that what he will find can only twist his gut into thick, complicated gnarls. "Rogers."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Bucky!" The man exclaims, loudly enough that it startles him into listening to whatever it is he has to say. "None of that is your fault, and it doesn't make you wrong, okay? You've been tortured for seventy years, I think it's understandable that you're having issues adapting."

"I don't remember being tortured. I remember them handing me guns and pointing me, and the rest I did alone." It's a lie. He can recall vividly, often in perfect detail, when they tortured him, but he sees it less as torture and more of a- of a punishment. Like he's being punished now by the saddest set of blue eyes he's ever seen.

"Let me help you. You are so much more than what they did to you. Let me show you." He swallows thickly, staring down at the carpet, and when he looks up, Rogers is still where he was a few moments ago, still with this expression on his face like he's the best thing he's ever had but having him back hurts because it's been too long, and he has ripped the scab off a wound just starting to heal.

He wonders why that sounds familiar.

"Help me." That's not what he says, though. He doesn't manage to force those two words out beyond his lips, a drowning man too busy trying to breathe through water to yell for a life saver. Instead, he says,"no" and he watches the hope crumble away like smashed chalk. "You should leave, if you know what's good for you." 

He's eerily calm, the previous turmoil gone without a trace, except it's not tranquil as it is dead. Hollow. Someone has taken a spoon to his insides and torn them all away, and not for the first time. He thinks maybe he should hate how erratic he is, how he burns hot and cold in two seconds flat, how he's spitting curses one moment and crying the next. But he can't feel much.

"Bucky, please. I want to help, let me help. I can."

"Go." He jerks his head towards the door, and Rogers flinches like he's been shot, and he would know, wouldn't he? He's shot him before. The blonde man stares at him another moment, and then he leaves, never once glancing back.

The door shuts. He breathes in, breathes out. Inhale, exhale. One, two.  And then he folds in on himself, arms clutching on the other, digging his fingers into metal until the nails crack, until he leaves bruises on his flesh arm. He shudders, quivering violently, pressing his forehead against carpet and he can't remember falling, but when has he ever remembered anyway? 

* * *

_"Go."_ The single syllable had wrenched apart his chest, baring him to the force of nature that is Bucky Barnes, and it's not the first time he's ever backed down from a fight, but it has left him more gutted than the helicarrier had.

So close. He'd been so close but he'd opened his big fat mouth and ruined everything with his ridiculous pleading, his begging, and he would have been on his knees if he thought it would have helped his case any. But it hadn't, and now he's walking the streets alone, his hands shoved in his pockets to curl around the emptiness there in a way he can't do to the gaping, yawning cavern that Bucky twisted into his very being. 

He has to lean against a wall, press his face against rough brick that bites at his skin, and  _breathe._ His lungs are rebelling like they had when he was a child, stealing oxygen from his throat until he's gasping, bent over in an alley and gagging. The serum doesn't allow this to happen for very long, forcefully shoving air into his chest so it expands properly, so he can straighten and wipe his mouth on his sleeve. 

He hasn't given up, though. He can't, and he won't, not even if Bucky beats him senseless again, or if he drills his words between every rib in his body. Steve will get him back; he has no other choice.


End file.
